You hear folks talking about the ‘level of love’ all the time, right? Like it’s some kind of special achievement you unlock in a game. For the longest time, I figured it was all about those big, movie-moment feelings. Turns out, I had it all wrong, or at least, only half right.
My Own Little Experiment in Devotion
So, how did I figure this out? Not from some fancy article or a heart-to-heart with a guru, believe me. It was something much muddier, much less glamorous. It all started with a small, forgotten patch of ground behind my apartment building. Just dirt and weeds, really. Nobody cared about it.
One day, I just got this idea. “I’ll make something of it,” I thought. How hard could it be? Plant a few seeds, water them, watch things grow. That was my initial ‘level of love’ – pretty shallow, all hopeful enthusiasm, no clue about the real work.
- The Great Unveiling: First, I had to clear it. This wasn’t just pulling a few weeds. We’re talking rocks, bits of old plastic, and roots so stubborn they felt like they were anchored to the center of the earth. My back ached for a week. That initial burst of ‘love’ took a hit right there.
- The Daily Grind: Then came the actual planting. I got some cheap seeds, a trowel. The soil was awful. Compacted. Lifeless. I had to dig in compost I lugged over myself. This became a daily thing. No applause, no audience. Just me, the dirt, and the setting sun. Some neighbors probably thought I was nuts.
- The Uninvited Guests: And the pests! Oh man. One week it was aphids, the next some kind of beetle I’d never seen before. It felt like a constant battle. My ‘level of love’ was being tested by tiny, six-legged armies. There were days I wanted to just pave the whole thing over. Seriously.
Then came the doubt. Was this even worth it? It was taking up so much of my time, my energy. Nobody asked me to do it. It wasn’t like I was saving the world. My so-called ‘level of love’ for this patch of dirt felt like it was running on fumes. It wasn’t the grand, sweeping emotion I’d imagined. It was more like stubbornness. A refusal to be beaten by dirt and bugs.
I remember one evening, after a freak hailstorm shredded half of what little I’d managed to grow, I just sat there on the curb, covered in mud, feeling completely defeated. My hands were sore, my knees were shot. “This is stupid,” I told myself. “Just give up.”
But the next morning, I was back out there. Picking up the pieces. Trying to salvage what I could. Why? I still don’t fully know. Maybe it was just that I’d started something, and the thought of leaving it as a half-finished mess was worse than the effort. That, I realized, was a different kind of ‘love’. Not the easy, breezy kind. This was the gritty, showing-up-anyway kind.
Slowly, very slowly, things started to change. A few stubborn plants survived. A couple of neighbors started to nod, maybe even offer a “looks better.” It wasn’t a magical transformation into a prize-winning garden. Far from it. It was still a bit scruffy, a bit wild. But it was alive. And it was mine, in a way.
So, when I hear about ‘level of love’ now, I don’t think of fireworks and violins. I think of sore muscles and dirt under my fingernails. I think about showing up when it’s easier to walk away. It’s not about how much you feel like loving something at any given moment. It’s about what you do. What you persist with, even when it’s giving you nothing but grief. That, for me, is where the real level is measured. Not in grand declarations, but in the quiet, often thankless, act of just keeping at it.
